


Collected the Pieces, Picked Out A Dagger

by ilomillo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Falling In Love, Not Canon Compliant, Possessive Behavior, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, in oh so many ways, possessive dany
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-02 11:18:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19197694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilomillo/pseuds/ilomillo
Summary: It’s upon coming to Westeros that Daenerys Targaryen realizes she has no experience in dealing with queens of any sort, besides herself. Least of all is she prepared for Sansa Stark.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ok so I think this season was a mess, not even a hot mess, just kind of a disaster/let down/shit show...and for that please enjoy some wlw goodness and a much happier plot. it's needed in these dark times.
> 
> title taken from "nightmare" by halsey
> 
> p.s Jon and Daenerys never hook up in this verse

It’s upon coming to Westeros that Daenerys Targaryen realizes she has no experience in dealing with queens of any sort, besides herself. Least of all is she prepared for Sansa Stark.

She both admired and disliked the Lady of Winterfell from the start. Her first thought upon greeting Sansa and being greeted in return was _I have met my match_. The "Queen in the North" was not impressed with her dragons nor her armies. She was not swayed by Daenerys' practiced pleasantries, or her rightful claim to the throne.

It was as if she expected better.

The thought irked Dany as much as it fascinated her.

Nevertheless, they found themselves agreeing with each other's opinions at council meetings, despite their seemingly insurmountable differences in views. She found herself smiling when Sansa and Jon bantered like siblings at dinner (the first time she laughed at one of Sansa's quips towards Jon Snow, Lady Stark looked at her as if she had two heads). No doubt she thought Daenerys hated her. This was not so, much to her own surprise.

Most of all, she saw glimpses of someone else behind the cold mask in quiet moments: tears, kindness, mercy, she saw them all in Sansa Stark.

 _She would have made a fine dragon_ , Dany found herself thinking one day. _Had she been born with Targaryen blood and dragons to ride...would have made quite the sight at any rate_.

When her guards accompanied her first visit to the Winterfell crypts a week after her arrival, she was surprised to find Sansa there, looking as regal as any queen in her fitting black dress. _She is not a queen_ , Daenerys reminded herself. She stood like a shadow in front of Ned Stark's statue, her face as solemn as his. Dany thought it must be in their blood to be so unbowed, so rigid.

Daenerys walked towards her until they stood side by side. Sansa turned, looking between her and her guards as though caught doing something wrong. Whatever expression was on her face quickly shuttered into blankness.

"Your Grace," she bowed, at the same time Dany said "Lady Stark." They smiled awkwardly at one another for the blunder, then looked away.

"There aren't many crypts like this across the Narrow Sea. The people there view death differently, I suppose," Dany observed. "It's beautiful."

There was a moment of silence, and then Sansa answered. "Northerners are as superstitious as they come. Burials, prayers, statues, ceremonies. It all seems so stupid now. Desperate attempts at comfort."

The undead were coming. There wasn't much comfort to be found anywhere.

Daenerys watched as Sansa's eyes roamed over the stone face of her father. There was a scar on her neck, just beneath her ear. It was ugly, a different color than the rest of her fair skin. She couldn't help but wonder whether or not the girl had more battle scars to speak of.  _O_ _f course she does_. Dany knew the horrors of Sansa's past better than she let on.

It was one of the few things she shared in common with her.

"Every person who knew Ned Stark has told me what a good man he was. I'm sorry he's gone."

"I come here to talk to him sometimes, when I want peace and quiet. Here and the Weirwood Tree."

"Whenever I want peace and quiet, I ride with my dragons. Even then it's hard to find."

Sansa turned to her, a barely noticeable hint of surprise on her face. Why? Because she thought Daenerys slept like a spoiled babe in her chambers every night? Because she was a human being?

"Yes," she spoke softly. "I suppose it is always hard."

That was the day Daenerys began to like Sansa Stark, to think of her as a kind of confidant, however precarious their situations. She likes to think Sansa feels the same.

Even after Sansa asked her what she planned to do about the North, and she made her intentions clear, a tenuous peace existed between them. Now, Dany realizes, Sansa was merely confident in her ability to sway that opinion.

 

 

 

\-------------------------

 

 

 

“She is _mine_.”

Dany doesn’t realize this outburst is a mistake until it’s too late. She must look half-mad to the court members, her delicate face a mask of calm rage, eyes blazing with dragon fire. She catalogues their reactions at the same time she berates herself for her words. _The North, I meant the North_ , she wants to say, as if it’s not a stupid lie. Tyrion looks somewhat shocked, more so because he doesn’t like being played the fool; Jon Snow is looking between his sister and her with dawning realization; Varys, whose expression has yet to change, is eyeing the sister in question.

Sansa. Sansa, who refuses to look at her. She might as well be a pillar of stone, a beautiful, unfeeling statue buried in an ancient crypt. It makes her heart hurt.

 _A queen who's judged for her coldness and another who's judged for the opposite,_ Dany thinks. They make quite a pair.

“We shall have no talk of Lady Stark’s marriage to another Lord. Not until both wars are won.”

Her word is final. And, if they live through the wars to come, she will find a way to ensure Sansa remains unwed—as much for Dany’s sake as it is for hers. The thought of another laying with Sansa, taking her—man or woman, high lord or peasant—makes her tremble with rage and fear. The thought of another hurting her, it simmers her blood.

The meeting continues, and Sansa doesn’t look at Daenerys once.

 

 

That night, there is a knock on her door.

The Northern Queen (Dany cannot help but call her that in her head) stands on the other side of it, gazing down at her coldly.

“May I enter, my Queen?”

This is not the first time Sansa has come to her chambers. Dany's come to hers as well. There is something different about tonight, though. Dany steps aside to let her through, then closes it and turns the lock. Turning around, she takes a moment to look at the woman she's let into her bedroom. The fire light shines off her hair, making her seem even more other-worldly than she’s been looking as of late. The two of them stand quietly, examining one another, until Sansa looks away, irked.

“Were you not pleased at the council meeting today, Lady Stark?” Dany inquires, making her tone bored.

It gets the desired reaction. Sansa stiffens, glaring down at her as she takes her gloves off.

“No. I can’t say I was.”

“And why is that?” Daenerys takes slow, measured steps in Sansa’s direction, holding her gaze all the while. “Do you believe I spoke falsely?”

“I believe you spoke idiotically.”

“Did I?”

Dany’s hand raises and touches her forearm, making Sansa visibly shiver. Violet eyes narrow in on a slender, pale neck, and a rapid pulse beneath it. She wants to grab her and make her bend down, bring that neck to her hungry mouth so that she may claim her beating pulse, and thus her heart, because love is everything that the Dragon Queen has ever wanted. Sansa doesn’t give close love freely, but when she does, she loves with her entire heart. Daenerys is the same.

Sansa’s pale hand is suddenly curled around the back of her neck, just resting there among the white locks of hair; she inhales the chamber air, no doubt stiflingly warm as compared to what she's used to, exhaling shakily. Daenerys, unable to resist, lifts her other hand to curl ginger locks around her fingers. The strands are soft as silk, starkly red against her skin.

“You always look beautiful, in these black dresses,” Daenerys breathes. “I want to see what’s under them.”

Sansa’s eyes flutter shut, and her chest rises faster. Her lips are parted, and she blinks her eyes open in shock when Daenerys slides her thumb gently across them.

“We can’t keep doing this.” She rasps.

“I am Queen. I can do anything I want, within reason.” Dany cups Sansa’s cheek in one hand, gazing up at her curiously. “The question is, what do you want? Are...do you...”

“I want—” Peace in the realm. Peace in the North.

_You._

Sansa, as in all her moments of weakness, berates herself fiercely for failing to swallow that truth. For all her growth, for all her desire to shut out everyone so as not to be burned again, it evidently means nothing. One beseeching look from the Dragon Queen and her defenses might as well be made of glass.

Suddenly, her grip on Dany's hair tightens desperately as she hisses, "How utterly foolish of you to do what you did earlier. If we're not careful, if the Northern lords find out—"

"I don't care."

"You should."

"Do you think we haven't been watched? Someone is bound to have seen us kissing at one point or another."

"Yes, because you pin me to the nearest available surface when the urge overcomes you." Sansa's lips, curled in frustration before, soften into a frown. Daenerys sees the glimmer of fondness in her eyes and presses her advantage.

"You've no need to be concerned with the Northern lords. They'll burn where they stand before any of them touch a hair on your head."

"I don't _want_ them to burn. I want the North safe, as does Jon."

Dany steps into her space, clutching Sansa's hair, bringing their faces closer. "I would not burn and ransack out of greed. I would not burn them unless they declared open war against me. I want to protect them, I want to have them as my people."

"We've bled enough! We've fought enough wars for too many kings." Sansa closes her eyes. "We're tired."

"Then kiss me," Dany whispers. "Kiss me again. We'll pretend for tonight that I am not a queen and you're no Lady. We'll forget whatever is beyond this room."

"Yes," Sansa whispers back, her eyebrows drawing together as if in pain. "I want you."

Their lips crash together, Sansa bowing her head and Daenerys straining onto her tip toes. Dany clutches that tall, slender frame to her own with all her might, and still it's not enough. She opens her mouth wider and drags her teeth across Sansa's bottom lip, using the other girl's gasp as an invitation to tongue her mouth. Sansa moans beautifully, her ungloved hands working frantically at the front of Dany's dress. Dany breaks the kiss to help her, unable to resist leaning up to reclaim that sweet mouth now and then.

Sansa works tirelessly, until her Queen by all rights stands completely naked before her; she pauses a moment to take in her petite frame, those womanly curves, pointed, rosebud nipples...she can't help but swoop down and take one into her mouth. Dany throws her head back and moans, clutching the back of her head.

"Here's what we're going to do." She draws Sansa away from her breast, gazing at her lustfully. "I'm going to make you cum with my mouth and fingers. Then I'm going to ride your face."

Sansa nods enthusiastically. "Gods, yes, please,"

Dany nearly shoves her onto the bed, straddling her waist as she starts undoing her front laces.

"Like a present," she murmurs. Sansa's eyes darken even more.

"You covet too much," she says teasingly, though Daenerys thinks she might have a deeper meaning. When the final string of the corset is loosened, the Dragon Queen brushes the material to the side, exposing her breasts.

Dany's fingers trail over them, leaving gooseflesh in her wake. "I covet what is rightfully mine."

"I'm yours, then?" Sansa asks teasingly. "You seem awfully keen on telling everyone this."

Daenerys swoops down and takes a nipple into her mouth, making Sansa gasp. She sucks, breaking away and nipping the skin around it gently. "I'll keep telling everyone, you included."

They kiss again, but her Lady is hesitant, less playful. Daenerys pulls away, searching her face in concern.

"What is it?"

Eyes of clear blue dart away from her own. Dany will have none of that; she gently cups her cheek in one hand and brings them back to where they should always stay, on hers.

"Are you doing this for dominion of the North?" Sansa demands suddenly. "Are you using me to gain my trust?"

Dany sucks in a breath, wounded. "No. I do not _use_ people to get what I want."

Sansa sits up on the mattress suddenly, clutching Dany's hips firmly enough to bruise. They are nose to nose, panting each other's air.

"You don't understand," she says lowly, a warning and a plea. "When I laid in bed at night, dreading every minute that brought Ramsay closer to my door, when I realized Littlefinger would sell me or fuck me to get what he wanted, whichever came first, I made a vow to myself. I would no sooner trust another person outside my family than cut out my own tongue.

"You have to be different. I need you to be different."

Dany cups Sansa's cheek with one hand, gently swiping under her eyes at the gathered moisture there. "Sweet girl," she murmurs. "I will be different. I swear to you."

And then she does something she has never done. She moves off the bed and kneels on the floor before Sansa, taking her hands in her own. "You have my word as Queen. On the lives of my dragons."

Her claim and her children are among that which she takes most seriously in this world; she knows Sansa understands this. From the tears spilling down her cheeks, she does.

Dany stands and places her lips under Sansa's jaw. "May your Queen take her kiss now?"

"Yes," Sansa gasps. "She can."

The Dragon Queen, as is custom, makes good on all her promises. For the night, and from then on afterwards.

 

 

 

\-------------------------

 

 

 

"Gods be good," Sansa whispers.

Drogon and Rhaegal, regal and beautiful even with blood staining their massive teeth, are sifting through carcasses of livestock. A part of her is angry, a bigger part of her is in awe, because this is the closest she's come to either of them. Jon has painted a vivid picture for her, as he and Dany often ride both of them, but the descriptions do not compare to the reality. These are not simple beasts, they are warriors. She turns to their mother, and lets loose an eccentric laugh.

"Dany—they're beautiful."

"You hated them at first," she teases.

Sansa smirks, fighting the urge to lean in and kiss her. Instead, she innocently places a hand on her shoulder, leaning in to no doubt whisper something friendly in her ear. "I disliked them, Your Grace, but fortunately you've changed my view on that quite a bit."

"Would you care to ride them later with me?"

The teasing lilt drops from Sansa's voice. "Really? Would they let me?"

Dany smiles as she places a lingering kiss on her cheek (they're alone, she's not concerned). "They will, because they know I trust you."

Sansa is a wolf. She belongs on the ground, in packs, in unforgiving climates where one cannot escape the snow beneath their feet. But in this world, wolves have been known to be tempted by dragons.

"Then yes. A thousand yes's."

"That's...quite a lot of yes's."

"Mmm-hmm. I also wanted to thank you _properly_ for the other night," Sansa continues, perfectly innocent.

Daenerys draws an unsteady breath and touches Sansa's waist, just as pleasant. "There's no need for thanks, my Lady. I've never received a better welcome." She leans in further, placing her lips against Sansa's lobe. "I'm looking forward to seeing you later."

Sansa shivers from her scalp to her toes. She feels pooling warmth between her legs. "I've been practicing, Your Grace," she murmurs. "Moving my tongue just the way you said."

She swears Daenerys breathes smoke, that her small hand tightens on the material at her waist. "Come to my chambers after we've supped, as you Northerners like to put it. I'll be waiting for you."

They break apart, arm in arm, the foreign Queen and the Lady of Winterfell on a friendly stroll to see the dragons.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy Pride Month xx

"We need to talk."

Tyrion is sitting on what looks like an uncomfortably stiff chair; it seems to be having an effect on his disposition. His eyebrows are drawn, lips pursed. Dany knows exactly what this is about, as would anyone who witnessed her outburst in the Great Hall. She's been avoiding them all for this very reason—but it can't be put off forever. She never wanted it to be a secret anyway. From the moment she knew she truly wanted Sansa, it never seemed wrong enough to warrant being kept hidden.

Others, of course, have different opinions on the matter.

"What is going on between you and Sansa Stark?"

Daenerys takes her seat next to him at the table. She raises an eyebrow. “What do you think?" It's a genuine question.

"I think that you're rather fond of each other. Dangerously fond."

"Danger is a relative term."

"Dany." Tyrion sits up further in his chair. "We are in an incredibly delicate position. As of now, the North is our primary ally, and Sansa Stark  _is_ the _North_. Her banner men will not take kindly to another Targaryen sleeping in a Stark's bed."

Daenerys wants to give rise to the sudden hot anger inside her. She wants to call those banner men an assortment of less than savory titles, for the very fact that they and everyone else in the damn world are now fast becoming obstacles. But she recalls a night spent in Sansa's bed, listening to stories of her growing up amongst them, and she bites back those venomous thoughts. 

"I would make them see," she simply says.

"I have to advise you, as your trusted Hand, that living among them I've picked up some things worthy of note: one of them being staunchness of tradition. This kingdom or any kingdom for that matter would not recognize a marriage, anything like it, between two women. Powerful women, no less."

"And I am telling you: every negative thought, every miserable conclusion racing through your head, I've already been thinking it for months. But when I am at my lowest a phrase always pops into my head, right when I need it most. _Break the wheel_.”

Tyrion pauses, nods, recognizing the point being made. "It might very well be accepted one day. But I doubt you and I will live to see it.” 

She nods back, but he knows his Queen well. It’s not in agreement. “That is where our opinions differ, then.” 

 

  

"Sansa."

Sansa looks up from the various documents and ledgers scattered across her desk, like a thousand pieces of a very stressful puzzle, to see Jon enter. He holds the door open for Arya and Bran after him. Once situating Bran in a spot by the fire facing them, her sister stands like a soldier at ease would, with her hands clasped behind her. 

Sansa sets down her feather pen and straightens. 

“You already know why we came to meet you.” Arya says mildly.

“I’m sure I do.”

Sensing the impending awkward silence, Jon clears his throat.

“We wanted to talk to you about the Dragon Queen.”

“What about her?” Sansa murmurs, incapable of speaking it louder for whatever gods’ given reason. Arya raises her eyes briefly to the ceiling, exasperated. It reminds Sansa so much of their youth that a corner of her mouth pricks up involuntarily. 

“What is there between you?” Jon asks, his voice serious. “Are you friends now?” 

Her gaze flicks from his to Arya, who looks at him the way she used to look at grown-ups who were being daft. Bran sits and watches them all, watches everything.

Sansa clears her throat. “I...believe that I’ve had an error of judgement, and I’m glad to say I was wrong.” 

“You were right not to trust her, just as Jon was right to bring her here.” Arya supplies. 

“Yes, well,” Sansa pauses. “I believe her intentions for the North are good.” 

Jon raises an eyebrow. “You do? You.” 

“Is that so hard to believe?”

”Daenerys wants the North to remain under her control. Considering you feel very strongly that it shouldn’t be, yes.” Her sister says. 

“She thinks she will be able to convince Daenerys otherwise.” 

Bran’s voice sounds quite out of no where, as is often the case. Jon and Arya look at him, then at her.

”So you’re using her?” Jon asks quietly.

_Am I?_

It certainly hadn’t felt that way. Whenever she thought about it, Sansa often felt she was the one being seduced rather than the other way around, the one too far in over her head perhaps. Then again, their sudden fascination with each other had without a doubt come as a surprise to both of them. She could say safely that with Dany, it was less about using, more about convincing; when the time came to broach the subject, Sansa would not manipulate. 

“No, I’m not. I just...have faith.” 

All of them are quiet, processing this information. Sansa waits.

”I haven’t seen you have faith in anything for a long time,” Arya says, looking down in a rare moment of emotional honesty. “If she hurts you, I’ll kill her.” 

Sansa smiles at her. A sad smile, but one nonetheless.

 

 

 

\-------------------------

 

 

 

Not long after, Jon Snow tells Daenerys he is her nephew. It feels both like a blow to the chest and the sweetest heartbreak. Her only living guide for what family could be was in Viserys, and he was never the sort of brother she wanted, to put it lightly. Jon Snow, on the other hand, is a good man. Observing him with his siblings, with Sansa, she sees the family he could give to the Targaryen name—a vision greets her of children running through Dragonstone, feasts with laughter and candlelight and music. All the good things Sansa got to see in Winterfell.

Yes, she is happy to have Jon Snow as her blood. But there are other things to consider.

"I don't want it," He says to her where they are sitting at the fire in her chambers. "The North is my home. I want to stay in it, if I live to see it standing." 

"It doesn't matter what you want. Who do you think will be the one they choose to fight for, the one they want to follow?"

"You may not be the last Targaryen, but you are the last dragon. They've heard of what you did across the Narrow Sea."  

"I'm not liked here. I'm not trusted here."

"No, not yet." Jon frowns. "But that's changing. They see you often, with my sister."

He looks at her, the frown still in place. It's not judging or unhappy, but contemplative. Dany sits straighter, quite suddenly nervous. 

"You love her." 

It's not what she expected him to say. Perhaps a question of her intentions, and that was assuming he suspected the real nature of their relationship. This takes her off guard, and she widens her eyes at him, realizing in a detached sort of way that she's clutching her hands together. It seems that she had not given Jon Snow enough credit.

What's more is the statement itself, because after quick consideration she realizes it is true. She does love Sansa, and she means to rule the Seven Kingdoms with her by her side. Together.

She had not thought she could love anybody like that, not after her son and Drogo died. She stands from the chair, walking to the fire. 

"Yes. Does that bother you?"

"No. I want Sansa to be happy, it's time she deserves it. But it worries me."

"Me as well." She turns back to him. "But we have bigger matters to discuss and bigger wars to win before we broach it further."

Jon nods in agreement. The last Targaryens spend the next few or so hours talking, answering the other's questions, looking on another in a strangely new, somewhat hopeful light. They come to several agreements by the time the sky outside is dark, without a single star. Once Jon leaves, Daenerys rests her arm on the side of the chair and stares into the fire again, resting her knuckles on her mouth.

"Rhae,  _aderī_."

Her chambermaid Rhae, a young girl from across the Sea, hurries into the room with a half-finished embroidery hoop clutched in her hand. "Yes, my Queen?"  

She tells her to call for Lady Stark at once, tells her it's urgent.  

Later, when Sansa hurries past her guards through the door, they are alone. 

“What is it?” 

“I have something to discuss with you.” 

Sansa walks to the fire where she sits, looking down at her impatiently. Her graceful form is draped in a simple evening dress, one that for all its drapiness still hugs her curves. “I’ll stand. I get anxious when you get this cryptic.” 

Daenerys figures this will be less painful for both of them if she gets right to the point, like ripping a bandage off swiftly. “Your brother told me something that could change everything.”

Sansa doesn’t miss a beat. “When did he tell you this?” 

“He came earlier to talk with me. I called for you as soon as he left.”

"Daenerys, tell me.” 

So she does. Sansa takes the news in like a queen would, a slightly furrowed brow the only trace of emotion on her face. Daenerys studies her and says, "You already know." Jon Snow had told her this, and it had stung.

Sansa nods. “I planned to wait for him to tell you himself. And truthfully, I wanted to see if you would tell me once he did.” 

“Arya and Bran know as well.” 

“He told all of us, swore us to secrecy.” 

Daenerys stands and paces, her anger rising. "What are you thinking?” Sansa asks.

”I’m wondering what you are thinking. And I find myself feeling for the first in a long time truly afraid.”  

“Tell me why.” 

“Because everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve dreamed of since I was young and didn’t know what it meant, could be lost.” _And_ _I would lose you with it_. 

Sansa remains quiet for a while, searching for words of comfort, wisdom, anything. She even combs her memories for things Baelish used say when tensions needed to be eased, but she draws decidedly blank.  _Words have never been our strong suit_. With that thought as fuel, she walks calmly to where Daenerys stands, and takes her hand.

Baelish and his awful words have no place in this room, with them, anyway.

"I'm sorry," she says. 

"For what?"

"I'm not sure. I'm not very good at consoling, you should know that."

Daenerys snorts softly. "You're better at it than most." 

"Not in this moment. There's too much to say." 

"There is. And we always find ourselves unable to say most of it."

Sansa takes her other hand, looking down at where their fingers touch. "Are we mad to keep doing this?" 

"I'm not sure. Sometimes I think I am mad, when it comes to you." 

"Tell me what you mean?" 

Daenerys brushes a strand of hair from her forehead, stepping closer. "You cloud my better judgement." 

"Well, we knew that." 

"Did I mention you can be a tart?"

"Remind you of anyone?" 

"Yet it doesn't matter, because I feel strongest when you're with me. When you're there, I don't feel completely alone." Daenerys' eyes search hers desperately as she says this. Sansa sees the roiling storm behind them, the confusion and the pain, and squeezes her hands tighter. 

"Then we have much to discuss between us."  _And it might not even matter, because the Long Night is here and the dead are coming._

"Tell me honestly: do you wish to see your brother on the Iron Throne?"

Since Jon told her about his true heritage, she'd put hours' worth of thought into that simple question. At first, there hadn't been a simple answer. Jon was the best man she knew, and he would rule with compassion and respect. The North would be independent if she asked it of him. He also had no interest in ruling; him and her father were alike in that way (in many ways). 

But then there was the other Targaryen.

She was brave, smart, forgiving, unforgiving. She dreamed of a better world, and used the fire in her blood to build it for the innocent. 

She would rule with compassion and respect. As for the North’s fate, Sansa could not see that far ahead. They would, for lack of a better word, burn that bridge when they came to it. But it would not end in fire and blood, of that Sansa was certain. 

In the meantime, Dany would protect the peace, and she could only grow wiser with age.

“No.” Sansa says resolutely. "Do you want to know why?"

Dany nods, hanging on to every word. 

"You're rational and stubborn at the same time, you don't gamble for peace, you create it, and I believe you fought your way across the Sea to build a home not only for yourself, but the people who rely on you." Sansa swallows. "Whatever happens between us, you are _my_ last great hope, and it seems that many others view you that way as well." 

Sansa watches Daenerys process this, etching every acute detail of her expression into memory. Blank shock, slight welling of tears, a slowly blooming smile. 

"And you are mine." Daenerys says. 

The kiss shared between them could melt glaciers, Sansa thinks. Every ounce of restraint is thrown to the wind, and both of them let their elation take over, reaching higher and higher with every brush and touch. Neither of them hear the horns blasting three times into the winter night, signaling that the white walkers are bound for Winterfell in a day's time. 

Looking back on it, Sansa thinks it was nice to fuck on the rug, worth it to postpone the news of their possible doom if only for a little while.  

 

 

 

\-------------------------

 

 

 

This is the first thing Dany says to her after the Night King is defeated and the Long Night is over: "The North is yours."

Sansa blinks, pulling out of their embrace. "What?"

"I will be ruler of the Six Kingdoms, and you will be Queen in the North. Maybe adopt the wildling tribes, if you'd like?"

"Daenerys—"

Daenerys silences her with a quick but firm kiss. "The North is yours. Just be mine." 

Sansa opens her mouth like a fish drowning on air, closes it. "How?"

“We'd be two separate, allied kingdoms. And as for us...I would hope that someday you could come to think of me as your family. Part of it, I mean. As you would be a part of mine. ” 

"What about heirs?"

"If Jon has children, his firstborn, whether son or daughter, will be ruler. If he doesn't, then I suppose I'll choose one. The North..." Dany trails off, because it's a delicate situation. She hadn't yet thought about if Sansa wanted children, if she was willing to secure a public marriage to put the Northern Lords and Ladies at ease. 

"I would not fault you if you chose to marry another for the good of your kingdom," Daenerys stumbles through the words. "Of course my proposal isn't contingent on whether you—" 

It's Sansa's turn to stop her words in their tracks, smiling against her lips. She pulls away, her face flushed a lovely shade of pink. "I will never marry again, unless it's you. Seeing as we cannot make heirs, the North will simply have to choose its own successor."

"I love you." Dany says gently. She clutches the other girl's face between her hands, gently bringing her back to her lips.

Jon Snow defeated the Night King, the White Walkers are gone, and Cercei waits for them in the south. Daenerys' lips curl at the thought of her, at what she's done to the girl before her. A girl who in a matter of weeks became precious. She will not sack the city, she will not harm a single innocent head, but their queen has a fate tied with fire, of that she will make sure.

Later that evening, Sansa studies her love's face from the warm covers of the bed. She's rifling through papers at the desk, her face a fascinating blend of power and contemplation and strength. Stormborn will show her enemies fire and blood one last time, but when the south surrenders and Cercei is dead, Sansa knows it is _Dany_ who will take the throne. All of Westeros could finally know peace, and with a little luck, prosperity. 

They will make it so.

 

 

 

 

10 YEARS LATER

 

 

 

"Did you know...I used to think you and I were nothing alike."

Daenerys is laying on Sansa's chest, twining their hands together under the sunlight across their sheets. As Sansa speaks her thoughts, she turns her nose into that graceful, pale neck, kissing the scar there.

"I didn't," Dany replies simply into her hair. "I think I knew we were different sides of the same coin. It was why I didn't like you." It seems so long ago now, meeting each other, the Battle for the Dawn...the utter mess afterwards. 

"You know what they say about my family and coins," Daenerys continues humorlessly.

Sansa takes her fingers and holds them lazily in her own. "Yes, and you know what they once called me in the South. A whore, a traitor...that doesn't make it true."

They lay in silence for a while, listening to the other's slowing breaths and enjoying the warm breeze from the balcony doors.

"You're leaving for home tomorrow," Dany murmurs.

"Aye," Sansa says. "And I'm leaving my heart with you until you return with it. Keep it safe for me?"

"Always, my Queen."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 40 OR SO YEARS AFTER THAT:
> 
> Dany and Sansa as two badass old ladies racing the dragons around an island Arya found for them to retire on. suck it D&D


End file.
